For Love of Light and Shadow
by Deichan
Summary: Trowa exists alone in Eald, last of his kind. He cares not for the company of others, until one intruder disrupts his peace.
1. Default Chapter

For the Love of Light and Shadow  
  
Ê  
  
The forest was quiet and dark under the fair elfish sun. Beneath the whispering branches of the ancient trees, shadows lingered, muttering and flitting from place to place among the silver flowers of the forest floor. In the treetops, strange fey birds took wing in a ghostly flock to settle themselves in a higher place as darkly shaded deer wandered silently below them. A slight breeze moved through the trees, and they bent their branches to share clandestine conversations. Elsewhere, a solitary tall figure stood and listened.  
  
Something was amiss in the land of Eald.  
  
The figure wrapped a cloak about his self and went quickly between there and here, seeking the source of the disturbance in the forest. He walked into the mortal Eald under the moonlight as it was his wont, seeking more solid paths than the shadow ways, and thus came upon the Man. Standing in the shadows, he watched as the Man cast this way and that, searching for a path deeper into the wood. On the Man's back was a case that clanged from time to time with the sound of harp strings; about him were ragged clothes, obviously more made for court life than trekking through forests.  
  
The Man breathed haltingly as from a long hard travel, standing not two paces from where the tall Sidhe[1] stood inÊ the shadows. About them and beyond, hounds belled and the Man crashed through the undergrowth with a new strength born of desperation. The Sidhe followed, his curiosity roused, quick elfish curiosity. The Man climbed over rocks and fallen trees, starting in fright at the shades that whispered in the mists of the night but never halting in his pitched flight. In a sprawling fall, the Man's hood fell from his head, revealing hair like spun gold and sunlight. He turned his head towards the Sidhe, seeing nothing yet suspecting. He quickly got to his feet and continued to run.  
  
The Sidhe went swiftly into the shadow ways, parting a path in the brush for the Man to follow, not quite wondering why. The Man possessed uncommon beauty. In seeing his face, the Sidhe was taken with a strong desire as he had never known of late, to know this Man, to hold this Man and perhaps keep him. Then again maybe not. But he was curious all the same.  
  
The golden-haired Man ran regardless, not realizing he was being led or not caring, seeking only to escape the hounds that could still be heard in the distance calling for his blood. He finally broke through the trees into a clearing, dominated by a huge spreading tree. Here he stopped and collapsed against its mossy bark, clutching an ache in his side. Above him, the Sidhe crouched upon a branch, hoping the Man would rest and stay for a while yet. But the hounds grew closer and the Man clambered to his feet. Fearing to lose him, the Sidhe spoke quietly. "You step where few would dare, Man."  
  
The Man turned quickly, seeking the source of the voice. Finding it not, he ventured a response. "I seek refuge in the forest... I did not intend to give any offense. If I have, I am sorry for it, but I am hunted."  
  
The Sidhe jumped lightly to the ground before the Man. "For what, hunted?"  
  
In startlement, the golden haired Man stepped back, dropping the harp case from his back. The jangle of strings resounded in the quiet glade. Immediately he knelt to retrieve the case. "For this," he said quietly. "For taking back what is mine, and was my father's before me, and his father's, and for giving offense to an evil lord."  
  
"Ah," whispered the Sidhe, and only this. He did not like much to be involved in the affairs of Man, finding them crass and ugly and wanting of some sort of elegance that graced his kind instead of the pettiness that permeated all of Man. But this Man before him, who peered at his face trying to see the truth of it and finding only shifting light and shadows, this Man had within him something more delicate and fair than that of the rest of Man. He decided. "I offer you refuge, Man, and protection if you would have it."  
  
The Man tried once more to see beyond the shadows that covered the Sidhe's face and failed. "I don't think I would like much to spend the night here, and wake up finding years have past and my kindred long dead."  
  
"Then you are wiser than most as well," the Sidhe said, smiling to himself. "I shall lead you to safety, then." He moved to walk through the brush, then turned to hold out a hand to the Man.  
  
The Man stood still, holding the harp case tightly. "The help of your kind does not come free..." he said, suspicious. The Sidhe's heart chilled a bit in disappointment, but he smiled a bit nonetheless. "I might have a bit of harping tonight?" he asked, secretly eagerly. It had been awhile since he had any sort of company, harp song besides.Ê  
  
The Man, more of a boy still, hesitated then nodded his assent, walking towards the tall Sidhe. With a sudden sweep, the Sidhe's cloak was around him, obscuring his sight as strong arms encircled him, carrying him to some unknown place.  
  
The Sidhe ran the shadow ways swiftly, heading deeper into the forest where no mortal could ever venture. Here vines choked the mortal Eald, forming an impenetrable wall of growth. Here he stopped, bringing the Man with him into the fairer Eald under the light of the pale sun. The trees reflected a gentle light with their silver veined leaves, giving off a faint fragrance. The Sidhe set the young Man down upon his feet and the golden haired boy stood in wonder of the forest about him.  
  
"Beautiful..." he whispered, then, turning to his protector, found beauty again. In this place, the Sidhe dropped his guise of shade and fleeting light and stood as he truly was, his fair face glowing with a faint preternatural shine, eyes the color of forest leaves and the river. His hair, the color of wood, moved with the breeze, covering his face slightly. The Sidhe smiled thinly, knowing what the boy saw. He reach forth and touched the harp case lightly. "Might you harp, now? This place is safe."  
  
"Aye," the boy agreed, and settled down on the mossy floor, drawing the harp from its case. The Sidhe sat against the trunk of a tree, merely watching the Man tune his instrument. The harp was uncommon fine looking, probably made by faery craftsmen in the days of old, when the Sidhe stilled ruled and Man was new to the world. The boy began to play and the bright, defiant sound of his voice and the harp filled the glen, and warmed the palestone hung against the Sidhe's heart. He looked upon the boy, finding an uncommon vision there as well; with bright, clear eyes the color of sky, hair like the sun, skin almost as fair as his own, the boy seemed one of the Sidhe. He suspected elfish blood within him, which more increased his desire to keep the boy here, if he was kindred.  
  
The golden boy had finished his song and sat looking at the Sidhe, who continued to look at him though wrapped in his thoughts. The boy's hand caressed the strings slightly, producing a rippling of sound in the silence between them. "You said you would lead me to safety." He was accusing.  
  
The Sidhe nodded. "That I have."  
  
"I did not ask for your refuge." The boy plucked at the harp a bit more, a discordant sound indicant of his mistrust. The Sidhe nodded again. "I brought you here that you might play, and we might talk a bit and rest." Far away, hounds howled their failure and were called by their masters. The boy heard, and stood up. "I would go now."  
  
The Sidhe stood as well. "As you would," he responded, saddened by the golden boy's mistrust and haste to take leave. He parted the undergrowth besides him and pointed the way. "Here lies a path to the river. Across the hills is a steading. You will be safe there."  
  
The boy gathered up his harp and made to go. The Sidhe stopped him with a raised hand. "Might I have your name, before we part ways?"  
  
The boy's bright eyes looked up into his, fearless. "I am Quatre."  
  
The Sidhe smiled. "My calling name is Trowa. If you have need, a name thrice called has power." He touched Quatre's shoulder, bringing him back into mortal Eald. The golden boy looked at him once more, then dashed off on the path shown to him under the moonlight.  
  
Trowa watched after him. "Fare well, and safely," he whispered under the pale sun of fair Eald.  
  
"Unwise," whispered a voice next to him. He touched the stone on his breast and turned to look into the burning eyes of the figure standing besides him. It seemed dark where Trowa was light. It smiled a bit. "Unwise to love them, Triton. Death walks with Man."  
  
"Perhaps," Trowa replied. "And what of you, Heero. I supposed you gone with the others long ago."  
  
The dark Sidhe touched the other's cheek gently, lovingly. "Never gone, Trowa. I am too full of spite and hate to follow the others peacefully across the sea."  
  
Heero's touch was cold and it chilled him throughout, but Trowa placed his own hand over the other and kissed his former lover's palm. "I have missed you."  
  
Ê 


	2. Chapter 2

For Love of Light and Shadow Part II  
  
Ê  
  
Quatre looked up from his work to the sky, wiping the sweat from his brow. The day was clear and the sun shown warmly on the small steading hidden within the hills. The fields were wide and green; rain never missed them, and the sun never brought drought upon the farm. The crops always grew straight and free of blemish. Field hands walked the rows, hoeing and weeding, each man, woman, and child an inhabitant of the steading. All of them, excepting Howard and Sally, were wanderers, lostlings who came upon the steading by chance, or luck, crossing the hills and following the small river to refuge.  
  
It was thus that Quatre came upon the farm house, running through the hills as if Death's own hunting hounds were harrying him. He was following the Sidhe's path, and by that path found safety. He was taken into the house and welcomed and cared for like all the others had been, given food and shelter. In exchange for this, he became part of the household, working to harvest the crops, plant them, care for the animals, also lostlings. The golden boy quickly gained many friends among those at the steading. There was the fair-haired Dorothy, who's sharp wit and nimble fingers gave her the jobs of keeping the house records and weaving. She could create beautiful tapestries when she had mind to, and many times had a group of children sitting around her loom watching her work with awed eyes. She also had a highly competitive nature, and often vied with Quatre during their harping at nights. The oft-smiling Catherine became a fast friend, with her joyful conversation and endearing skills with the children. She could always find a way to keep them out of trouble around the house and barn.  
  
Howard was the undisputed lord of the household, although no one could conceive of calling him "lord". He was like a gust of wind with his wild shock of hair and humorous eyes, quick to laugh and joke. Sally was his daughter, and the stone that kept him in his place with her solid common sense and determination. It was she who organized the house meals and kept all from chaos. Quatre loved them all deeply, and was happy and content at the house.  
  
From time to time, however, darkness touched him and he remembered his family and his responsibility to them. As he lay in the warm hay in the barn, he thought and knew that he ought to leave the soft drowse of the steading... There had been a great war several years before Quatre had been born, between the king and his lesser lords. Quatre's father had been close to the king, but the man was soon thrown out of favor by the people and the evil lords ruled the land. The king was killed and Quatre's family fled their valley hold in the night, fearing destruction for their association with the dead man. Their hold, Caer Elfoar, was taken over by one of them, the Lord Durmail and his army.Ê  
  
Years passed, and Quatre was born in a small hold in the mountains. He was told how the family had been exiled to escape massacre, forced to leave behind countless loved belongings in Caer Elfoar. His earliest memories were of being regaled with stories of family heirlooms, and when he was of age he vowed to retrieve the one thing his weak mother missed the most: the harp, that had been with the family for years immemorial. Quatre was determined to do so, and left the small hold in the dead of the night to avoid his family's protest.  
  
The boy sighed and returned to his work mending the grain bin next to the barn. If he never was able to return to his father, mother and sisters, he would forever regret leaving them in the first place, even if he had been successful in getting the harp. He would regret... Quatre closed his eyes, keeping a tenuous hold on the vision that flashed in his mind's eye. A grove of silver branches, jeweled leaves. A timeless voice and half-remembered conversation. "You said you would lead me to safety." "That I have." A cloak woven of shadow and spider's web surrounding him. Then it was gone. In a second he despaired, casting about for more. His memories of the trek through Eald were few and inconstant at best. No, he would not regret that meeting...  
  
"It is better to act than regret," said a soft voice next to him. Startled out of his thoughts, Quatre cast an annoyed glance at the newcomer but soon repented for this as well, seeing who it was who disturbed him. The dark young boy standing beside him was called strange by half of the steading and Sidhe by the other. He was rarely seen at mealtimes; no one knew where he slept or what he did. They did know, however, that every morning of harvest the sickles and scythes were always sharpened, and the fields were found with torn weeds in piles by the rows.Ê  
  
"You are Wufei," said Quatre, softly. The boy nodded, his black eyes glinting with wisdom and hidden knowledge. Quatre waited for the boy to speak again, but he said nothing. Disconcerted by the silent vision Wufei presented, with his shining black hair, obsidian eyes and golden skin, Quatre was loath to venture another question. "What would you have with me...?"  
  
The dark boy spoke with the lilt of a prophesy. "Do not regret. You will see them again."  
  
The golden boy stood confused and unnerved as a cloud passed over the sun. "What mean you? When?"  
  
Wufei's black eyes lost their focus as he intoned his next words:  
  
Sun rises in the West, Dark falls in the East  
Seek help in that which you know the least  
  
He shook himself, then hugged his arms helplessly. The sun broke free from the cloud and shone down warmly on the two boys, both chilled to the heart by the strange words. Wufei looked up into Quatre's shocked eyes and his face fell even more. "I will go now."  
  
Before Quatre could prevent him, the younger boy had disappeared around the corner of the barn. As he roused himself to follow, there was a commotion in the yard. Catherine's strong voice carried over the wind. "O, come! Come, a man has fallen in the yard!"  
  
He turned and ran back into the yard where Catherine knelt beside a large, dark-haired man. "Get him a dipper of water!" she ordered Quatre as others arrived from the fields and house. He ran to the trough and filled the dipper hanging on the wall there with the fresh, clear water and returned with it to the yard to find most of the household surrounding the newcomer. He fought his way through the press and knelt beside Catherine, handing her the water so that she could pour it into the weakened man's mouth. As his parched lips were moistened, the man's eyelids fluttered and finally opened, searching the faces about him.  
  
Quatre's heart lurched. He knew this man, who lay on the ground before him, had known him all his life. It was his father's steward and his own mentor, who taught him many things of fighting and keeping of the hold. The man's eyes caught hold of his, and they widened in surprise.  
  
"Master..." the man began, his throat dry and cracked from lack of water. Quatre shook his head, urging him to quiet. "Drink the water, Rashid."  
  
"You know this man?" Catherine looked at him incredulously, and Dorothy said sadly, "You'll be leaving us, then, Quatre."  
  
The golden boy shook his head again, but he knew that he would leave. He felt it in his heart. Rashid struggled to speak again, lifting his hand toward Quatre. "Young master Quatre... your father.."  
  
"Come," said Sally, her presence commanding authority as it always did. "Let us get him out of the sun, and in the house."  
  
At dinner, Rashid had gotten strong enough to sit by the fire and feed himself and lift his own mug of ale, albeit weakly, and his hand sometimes quaked. Quatre sat next to him, attending his needs until finally the big man persuaded the young man to sit down, and talk to him.  
  
"Master Quatre, everyone thinks you to be dead!" Rashid began, waving a leg of fowl about for emphasis. "So many things have happened since you've been gone... your poor mother has gotten weaker by the month and the hold despairs for her health. You must return at once."  
  
Quatre nodded agreement. He had thought as much, for he had not left word of where he was going when he left; of course they would think him to be killed by bandits, or worse. Rashid took a bit of his fowl, his eyes ceaselessly sweeping the busy room. They came to rest on the harp, leaning against the hearth. His breath was suddenly caught in his chest as he pointed a shaky hand at the instrument.  
  
The young man followed his friend's hand and saw the harp. Rashid's hand lowered as Quatre nodded again. "That is what I left home for, Rashid. I went back to Caer Elfoar and stole it." His voice dried in his throat as he watched tears form in his mentor's eyes. The man's voice shook with emotion.  
  
"You... you wily little fool..." Rashid whispered, aghast at the enormity of the task that Quatre had undertaken. "You managed to get into Caer Elfoar... and you took your mother's harp back?"  
  
The boy numbly nodded, wondering if it wasn't a good thing that he had done. He realized he had cause grief by doing such a thing, but at the time had felt it must be done. His fears were banished as Rashid took him into a rough embrace.  
  
"Quatre, you did not have to risk yourself for such a thing.." the man, half-heartedly reprimanding him. "Durmail has died. Your father is leading the house to take back Caer Elfoar... the harp would have been ours again." Rashid let go of of the golden-haired boy and smiled, holding him at an arm's length. "But everyone will be overjoyed to find you well and alive. You will return with me back to your father, won't you?"  
  
Quatre smiled back, seeming as the bright summer day once again; the darkness had left his face. "Yes, Rashid. Let us go home."  
  
Ê 


	3. Chapter 3

For Love of Light and Shadow 3  
  
The dappled horse stalled at the edge of the forest, its eyes showing white with fear. Quatre leaned forward and stroked its neck comfortingly, peering deep into the shadows of Eald. Strange things chittered in the darkness at them, the two figures standing in the lighter New Forest. The horse shied away from the dark, finding the light of the fading mortal sun safer and warmer. The golden haired man sat and urged the steed forward, along the border of the New Forest and Eald.  
  
It had been several years since he had last passed this way, along the banks of the forest river that wound its way through haunted forest and bright alike. Years since he arrived, and left the holding in the hills to fight with his father to take back Caer Elfoar. Years since they emerged victorious through the rebel bands and lords who tried to take the Caer for their own, and their bones and blood were now the soil of the green fields. There was peace in the vale of Elfoar, peace enough for a lord and his family harried for years as criminals. Peace in the vale, but without, in the forests and mountains, roamed the robber bands and those who would make war.  
  
The golden boy, now fully grown, took it upon himself at his father's leave to patrol the lands for such evils. It was not simply concern for his family, but a restlessness in his heart that brought about the long rides in the forests. Quatre's brow furrowed at the memory, or lack of it. A shadow of a memory, more like, of silver leaves, a pale sun, and a soothing voice with moss-colored eyes. His heart ached with the thought of it. He had felt something that night, something beautiful and intangible that left him empty and yearning. Sighing his discontentment, Quatre shook his head of such thoughts and with soft sounds guided his steed through the darkening twilight.  
  
Under the light of the dawning elfish sun, Trowa watched the golden Man travel along the river, keeping the small things of Eald at bay with a warning glance and a word. The moonstone at his breast warmed at the sight of him, Quatre, remembered harp song and a light voice. The tall Sidhe swiftly walked the shadow ways at the edge of Eald, keeping the Man in sight, wishing that he might venture into the Eald. Trowa doubted this, but hoped the same. He didn't care to walk under the Mortal sun just yet. He stopped when Quatre stopped, watering his horse on the opposite bank of the river.  
  
I would that he came into the Eald, Trowa inadvertently thought, the intensity of his feelings startling him once again. The folds of his cloak swirled about his lithe form as he passed from the elfish Eald into the mortal, wishing to be closer to the beautiful Man. He did not move beyond the boundaries of his forest though, and in due course Quatre mounted the dappled horse and rode on, unaware of the Sidhe's watchful eye. The stone grew cold as the vision parted, and Trowa's isolation sharpened into focus. He didn't even lend an eye to the figure that stood at his side, all darkness and mocking laughter.  
  
"You pick your loves badly, my friend," teased the dark figure, a fiendish smile touching its lips. A wicked scythe blade glinted in the fading twilight. "That Man travels in to danger, and soon enough to My arms."  
  
Trowa did not turn to the darkness. "Be gone from me, Death. You and your brothers have no hold over me and mine."  
  
Death laughed, a manic sound, cold and hollow, and full of dark mirth. "He is not yours yet, dear friend, and not likely ever to be. You will not even step out of your domain to retrieve him!"  
  
The Sidhe turned his back to Death and walked into his forest, stung by what the godling said but unwilling to let him see it. The Dark Lord followed, and walked beside him, lonely for company.   
  
"I apologize," he said at length, keeping pace with the swiftly moving Trowa. "I am too cruel at times ."   
  
They had passed many trees, Trowa touching each one as he went, drawing awareness from each. In due time, the two, Sidhe and god, came in sight of the river once again. There Trowa paused, his hand resting on an aged willow at the river's edge. "Cruel, perhaps," the tall Sidhe spoke softly, watching as Quatre rounded the bend. "Cruel as my kind were, and more truthful."   
  
Lord Death heard the pain lacing the quiet voice, and so resigned himself. "An ambush awaits yon fair Man, Trowa. If you would save him, act now, for I shall not guarantee that he will pass through without feeling the kiss of my blade."   
  
For once, Trowa cast his glance upon Death, his eyes shining coldly. "Tis not like you to have compassion, young god."   
  
"Nor like you not to act upon your desires, old friend," Death gently retorted, smiling. His smile softened as the Sidhe turned away once more. "I have a lighter face..."Ê   
  
But Trowa only ignored him, and after it seemed like an eternity passed, Death went along his way. He felt him go, sensing Death's path through the trees like a dark echo that soon faded away. Full night had fallen in moral Eald, and the forest sang with the harmony of living things. Trowa closed his eyes and unfolded the awareness of the forest and made it his own, drawing on the life around him. He felt Quatre's dappled mare, who quivered at the touch, and Quatre looked about, suspicious. He felt the taint of iron on the steed and the young Man, and shrank from it.   
  
Casting further, the Sidhe tasted iron in the New Forest, a group of hard Men looking for blood. Trowa withdrew and turned back to the golden Quatre, calling to his heart: /Ambush!/   
  
Quatre fidgeted in the saddle and lifted his shield, emblazoned with the rising sun, closer to his side. He cast his clear azure eyes into the dark forest around him, feeling the pressure of eyes upon his body. /Safer in the Eald.../ He set this hand upon the sword at his side, and rode on. He didn't care to travel into the depths of Eald again. /"Might I have a bit of harp song?" "Beautiful..."/   
  
The mare danced nervously away from the bracken lining the rushing waters, stroked by the tension palpable in the air. Quatre did nothing to quell its fear, feeling the call of Eald like a pulse throughout his body. The river sang with a whispering chorus behind him as he urged the horse further into the thicket of the forest.   
  
Then two pale moths came flying, a whipping of arrowsound... Quatre flung up the shield and a blow jarred it, while the horse reared and leaned and cried with a sudden loosening of life.   
  
He sprawled clear of the dying horse, shield lifting, jarred by a second shaft thumping into the wood while others hissed through the brush and his back hit the thicket. He scrambled desperately to cover himself and to run, tearing his right gloved hand on thorns, while the crash of brush warned him of enemies coming. Quatre's back net a tree, and he braced himself there on his feet. He had his sword from sheath, and they came on him in a mass in the forest dark. Blows battered at his shield and he hewed at them with every stroke that his tiring arm would allow him--the blade bit and there were screams. They tried to come at him from behind, and he swung with his shoulders still against the tree and killed one of them and another, rammed his shield under a bearded chin, washing the sun with blood. He cleaved with his sword again, but with ebbing strength, for there was a quick numbing pain in his aide and he knew something had gotten through, in the joinings of his armor.   
  
His shield was cleaved by an axe and held fast to it. Quatre let the shield go and swung the sword two-handed, clove ribs and wrenched the blade free in backswing, while a staff came down on him. The blow dazed him, but he rammed the blade's point into that one's belly and slew him too... while brush crashed and cries were raised beyond--"Ho! help, we have him!"   
  
He took to the brush and began to run blindly, and staggered across the thigh-deep rush of the river. Chilled and sodden, he waded ashore and set out running on the opposite bank, seeking the bracken again when arrows hissed after. Voices cursed in the gathering dark. Quatre sought higher ground with a wildling's instinct, not to be driven into some hole against the stream's banks. Branches tore at him and snapped. His limbs turned leaden with the weight of the armor, and his side ached. A veil seemed fallen over his eyes and the little light in the heaven was dimmed, yet for a time he ran with hope, for it seemed his pursuers had fallen behind. He climbed, took ways closer and closer with brush and twisted, aged trees, through tangles so thick it seemed no bracken could grow. He hoped, and then the brush around him crackled to a dry chuckling, and the wind stirred through the branches like a rising storm. He ran farther, until all the sound in his ears was his heartbeat, and his own harsh breath tearing his throat.   
  
But another breathing grew at his heals, the whuff of a running horse, the beat of hooves which broke no brush as it came   
  
Quatre spun about to face attack, but there was nothing but the blackness, and the wind. Then the hounds belled and his heart froze, and he feared as he had never feared in battle. Quatre turned back and ran as if the effort before had been nothing. The ache in his side was more than the need for breath; he pressed his hand to his side and felt the ebb of blood.   
  
He was weakening. He heard aÊ chuckling and then knew the name of the rider that followed him, and the name of the wood into which he had strayed. Shadow came, and a spattering of rain, a rattle of thunder and the baying of hounds. Shadows flooded among the trees, black bits of night which rushed and leaped for him. Quatre swung his sword, but it swept through them, and a coldness fastened and worried at his arm. numbing all the way to his heart.   
  
He cried aloud and tore free, leaving a fragment of himself in the jaws, and the sword was no longer in his hand. The shadows coursed behind him, and the hoof beats rang like a pulse in his ears and the hoarse breathing was like his own. The enemy was not behind him, but lodged in his side, where the wound worked at his life. A part of his soul was theirs, and they would tear him to nothing when they came on him again, a rending far worse than the first.   
  
Rain spattered into his face and blinded him, dampened the leaves so that they clung to him and his armor was soaked so that he did not know now what was blood and what was rain. Quatre stumbled yet again, then in a crash of thunder he conceived of safety in the trees ahead, where it seemed there seemed to be a mound, a swelling of the land with life, where the trees grew vast and stretched out their limbs in sympathy.   
  
He reached it, entered it, sped in a strange freedom where the trees were straight and crooked at once, barren and flowered with stars and aglitter with jewels, with silver laid upon the white branches, swords and shining mail, cloth like the morning haze, spiderweb among pale green leaves.   
  
ÊA sword hung before him, offered to his hand... Quatre tore it from the leaves in a scatter of bright foliage, and the brightness about him faded, leaving him along with the dark and the shadows, and the dark rider, who burst upon him, absorbing all light like a hole in the world. A manic laughter rung through the glen, and Quatre held the illusionary blade trembling before him, and shuddered as its light drew detail from the dark, revealing jaws and eyes of hounds. He was drawn to look up, to lift his face unwilling, to face the rider--he saw something, a flash of a wide, terrible smile, which his dazed mind would not recall even the instant after beholding it.ÊÊ   
  
The rider came closer, and all his flesh chilled except the hand which held the blade. He lost the brightness, could not hold even his vision of this grim place. The hounds became to overcome Quatre, but he slashed at it and the hounds yelped aside from him, bristling and trembling.  
  
"Come," a voice whispered to him, very softly. His heart leaped, and his mind's eye clouded with remembrance of another chase, and a quiet voice. The blade wavered and sank, and yet a warmth broke like a breath of spring at his back. "Stand firm" the someone said.   
  
"He is mine," the shadow said, his voice like shards of ice.  
  
"Be off," said the other, soft and without doubt.  
  
"He has stolen from you. Do you encourage such thefts?" And for a moment the world was bright, and the shadow was a blight upon it, a robed shadow which stood in an attitude of amazement. "Ah," the cold voice breathed, peering at the golden Man. "Ah. This is why you would keep him from me."  
  
Light blazed. Quatre staggered in it, and his knees hit the ground, a shock which wrung a sob of pain from him, and he could no longer tell earth from sky, shadow from light. Rain beat down into his face, chilling his torn soul.  
  
But the shadow was gone, and the thunder stilled. It seemed the moon shone down. A face confused itself with it, and with the sun in a strange, fair sky. He still clutched the sword. Slim, cool fingers pried his hand from it, eased his limbs, and covered him with a downy peace in which the only pain was in his heart, an ache of yearning and a memory of loss. 


	4. Chapter 4

For Love of Light and Shadow 4  
  
  
He knelt with the rain still dripping off the leaves, a shimmering dew upon them both, and the golden Man lay very still and pale beneath the mortal moon. Iron tainted him, and yet he tore through the Sidhe's forest, if only for a moment; brought iron there and Death. He was stirred to a small bit of fear, but no anger. Trowa was filled with the longing he had felt since last seeing the fair Man before him. To have entered his Eald, to have found the very heart of it and to have stolen an elvish sword... he was no common Man, Quatre, and it was no common need that he faced. Perhaps his mortal eyes were affected by the terrible wound he bore, or maybe his eyes saw with truer sight than most, for never in many a hunt had Lord Death failed.  
  
Trowa's eyes softened as he looked upon Quatre's drawn but fair face. Eald had stretched far before the coming of Men, and once, before his kind knew much of Men there had been a few of halflings kind, for elvish loves and dalliances among these fatal strangers. Still, he thought, there might be elvish blood drawn very thin in some, halflings who never felt the call of the sea and faded away. In hope, he tried to draw the golden haired Man with him into the fairer Eald, but iron weighed him and he could not stay.  
  
Gingerly, patiently, the Sidhe endured the handling of it, undoing the buckles, pulling it off of him piece by piece. So Trowa uncovered the terrible wound in his side and drew on his power to begin its mending, healing the tiny scratches with light touches. And when he rested a moment, it was not hard to bear Quatre away with him, simply a holding of the fair head in his lap, and a thinking of elvish things. Then the trees became what they truly were, straight and beautiful, and the sun of his day shown down with kindly warmth on that grove.  
  
The fair Man slept long, while the wound healed itself, while the lines of mortality faded from his face and left it beautiful with that beauty that might be elven heritage. The tall Sidhe did not leave his side in all that time, waiting with all his heart for the awakening.  
  
And at last Quatre did stir and looked about him with wide, sky colored eyes and looked into Trowa's own, seeming young, and lost again. He began to be in his own mind again and at once faded into the Mortal world, into darkness, but the Sidhe took his hand and drew him back before he could slip away. "Beware of going back," he said softly. "Death has a part of you. Too easy for him to call you into his arms as you are now. You are much safer here."  
  
Quatre peered into the moss colored eyes, seeing another vision of another memory. 'You said you would lead me to safety...' He tried to rise, still holding the other's hand, maintaining that delicate hold on *here*. Trowa lent him strength, the green force which sustained the trees themselves, and after a moment he was able to stand and look about him. Wind whispered through the leaves and the sun cast its own glamour while the deer stared at them both wise-eyed from the green shadow, in the grove of swords and jewels.  
  
" I was dead," he said, enthralled by the beauty around him.  
  
"Never," Trowa assured him, gripping his hand slightly.  
  
"My..." Quatre vaguely placed a free hand on his chest, now devoid of armor. "My heart hurts..."  
  
"So it may," the Sidhe replied, "for it was torn. And that healing is beyond me." Then, he stepped closer to the gold haired Man, nearly closing the gap between them. "Do you remember me, Man?"  
  
Quatre's bright eyes were clouded as his minds eye was flooded with remembrance, harp notes strung high in the fair night air, silver leaves and this soft voice. He looked into the other's eyes and sighed "You are he..."  
  
And with the swiftness of a hawk his heart was filled with another pain, the delicious pain of longing and a measure of despair. Blue eyes glimmered with the shine of tears and the Sidhe whispered "What is my name, Quatre?"  
  
A fair hand lifted and gently touched the pale, trembling face. At the touch, a single tear fell, looking as the jewels hung on the branches about them, and Quatre knew the name of the beautiful specter that had haunted his mind and heart for all those years. 'Trowa!' he called with all his heart, but his voice could not speak it. His own hand reached out to touch the other, yearning to feel his dreams made real. Trowa understood, and he at once felt arms fold around in a sweet embrace; he did not resist, but let his tears run freely on the tall one's warm chest.  
  
Trowa's own heart warmed and ached at the same instant, and the stone at his breast felt the young Man's relief and tears so close to it. He briefly pressed his lips onto the golden hair, and whispered again, feeling hope and despair. "Stay with me, beautiful Quatre, fair Man. Stay with me, and never hear them calling."  
  
Quatre was at once made and broken again by the plea, remembering his family and his home. He closed his eyes and clung to Trowa, wishing with all his heart that he could stay. But-- "I cannot!" came the wretched answer.  
  
He felt a gentle hand smooth through his hair and Quatre raised his head to look into sadness when he looked into the moss colored eyes of the Sidhe, and his heart broke further. But Trowa lightly caressed his cheek, then reached up and chose a jewel from those hanging from the silver branches above them. He drew it down and placed around Quatre's neck, so the stone hung where his heart was.  
  
Quatre began to protest at the gift, but was silenced by a soft finger on his lips. "The stone was the heart of a Sidhe," Trowa said, touching the stone. It warmed at the touch, and warmed Quatre's heart as well. "It belonged to one of my closest companions. He was kind, and gentle." The tall Sidhe smiled at the remembering of it. "You mind me of him, Quatre. He would like you having it."  
  
He touched the pale stone at his own breast as the fair Man looked on with wonder. "The stones call to each other, Quatre. And it will ward off the chill of Death's kiss."  
  
Then, swiftly, Trowa covered Quatre's lips with his own, and they were joined together in a warmth that lasted even after they parted. Quatre saddened anew when Trowa released him and stepped a bit away. "I will show you the way back," he said, and then took Quatre's hand again, though there was no fear of him slipping into Mortal Eald with the stone about him. "You must mind how I take you, but do not go the way without guide."  
  
Quatre wanted to speak as the Sidhe drew him into the forest, speak of how he filled Quatre, made him complete, how he loved him, but he did not. He only said "Trowa," and was happy when the other turned to him, and smiled.  
  
Unseen by the both of them, two dark figures watched their passage through the blackness of Mortal Eald and then through the elvish shadow ways. Hard, cobalt eyes glittered and scowled.  
  
"He is of no consequence," the dark Sidhe said, his eyes never leaving the golden Man, now part Sidhe with the stone."But a passing interest. Easily dealt with."  
  
The other figure, cloaked in darkness, turned his head and grinned incredulously at the first. "Why, Heero," Lord Death exclaimed. "You're jealous!"  
  
"Hn." 


	5. Epilogue

For Love of Light and Shadow   
  
V   
Ê   
  
In a small hold in the hills, the sun rose bright over straight, green fields and the house stirred as its inhabitants woke to begin the new day's work. In the loft of the barn, the boy called Wufei, nearly a man now, crouched in perfect balance on the uneven boards. His head cocked to the side with the air of attention as sunlight filled with glimmers of golden dust floated about him, lighting on strands of ebony hair and giving his darkened skin an ethereal hue. Had someone seen him in that moment, they would have wept at the sight of heaven; but no one was there, the barn was empty and the illusion soon faded away.   
  
There was darkness rising in the east, a blight that would destroy the lands and their people as surely as disease would kill a field of grain, if left untreated. Wufei knew this. He had seen it through the dim haze of his dreams and thoughts. He used to question the images and snatches of words that came to him by day and by night, but no longer; though the boy knew not of their origin, he knew them to be truth by some innate sense that was solely his own. The darkness was rising in the east and Wufei could see it behind his eyes, could feel it like a demon on his back, and he could no longer ignore it.   
  
He stood up in the light of the sun on the rough board of the barn loft and decided. He had lived at the steading for as long as he could remember, had been a part of that family of lostlings until he drew himself from it, instinctively knowing that he was not of their kind, had never truly been. When he had still been very young and given to needing care from a mother, the kind-hearted Sally told him stories before leaving him to sleep, stories of a beautiful woman with skin the color of the trees, like his own, and sparkling onyx eyes that drew your soul into them. This, Sally had said, was how he came to be at the steading, to be protected and cared for when the woman left to the west, toward the sea. The story saddened the young Wufei, and loneliness and abandonment filled him for he knew the woman Sally described was his own mother, but then the good woman of the house pulled something from her apron pocket and clasped his hand around it, a cold and hard thing.   
  
Wufei touched the clear blue stone at his breast and it warmed with memories and kindness as it had when he opened his young hand that night and looked upon it for the first time. It was left by the beautiful woman, Sally told him, to give to her son when he was old enough to wear it, and know its value. The young Wufei looked upon the stone with eyes of wonder and happiness; it banished his fears and loneliness, whispering sweetness and comfort into his heart like a mother's embrace. He slept that night, wrapped in memories of his mother, and was happy. But with the love in the stone, came an awareness, a knowing that someday a thing would be expected of him to right what was made wrong. The beautiful woman told him as he dreamed, with the sound of waves crashing on smooth shores, that he would have to leave the steading when that time came. Wufei decided, as he stood, and knew that time was upon him.  
  
With the swiftness of falling water, Wufei silently leaped over the ledge of the loft into the barn proper. The animals watched with large liquid eyes, unstartled by his sudden appearance, and he softly touched each one of them in farewell before slipping out the door of the barn. The yard outside the dim and cool building was soft with warmth and the slow breezed caressed his body lovingly as hecrossed the way to the house. He stopped before the steps of the porch and Sally stood there, her braids swaying the slightest bit in the wind, and her sad eyes clearly betrayed her heart's content. Her voice carried gently as she spoke. "You are leaving us now, aren't you Wufei?"   
  
He said nothing in response, only looked at his dearest friend with truthful eyes, to which she smiled. Then she reached into her apron pocket and offered the wrapped bread she found there to him, and he took it. With suddenly bright eyes, Sally impulsively clasped Wufei's hand as he took the bread. "Tread with care, Wufei..." she whispered and like the sun breaking through clouds he smiled at her. An instant after, he was gone and the strong woman was left alone in the yard, the echos of her words falling on the wind.   
  
Dark, fey things loomed nearby the young Sidhe as he ran the shadow ways to the east, and with a coldness touching his heart he avoided them, knowing full well that the time approached when he would have to do battle against them. A dark war was begining in the far lands of Eald, and with fear weighing heavily upon him, Wufei ran to his destiny. 


End file.
